Her Royal Spyness (19 page)

“Trunk call from Scotland for Lady Georgiana Rannoch,” came the woman’s voice on the line, with much crackling.

“Binky?” I demanded.

“Oh, hello there, Georgie, old thing. I hope I didn’t wake you.” He sounded positively cheerful.

“I was waiting for you to ring me last night, Binky. I stayed awake.”

“Didn’t get in until midnight. Didn’t think I should disturb you at that hour.”

He sounded so normal, not at all worried, that my anxiety exploded. “You are absolutely impossible! You run away and leave me here alone and now you are talking to me as if you haven’t a care in the world. I take it you did see the body in the bathtub before you made your rapid departure?”

“Careful, old thing.
Pas devant la opérateur.
” (His French always was abysmal. She was feminine.)

“What? Oh, I see, yes. You did see a certain object, in the
salle de bain
? And you recognized it?”

“Of course I did. Why do you think I decided to clear out in a hurry?”

“And left me to face the music alone?”

“Don’t be silly. Nobody would suspect you. There’s no way a slip of a girl like you could lug a
grand homme
into
le bain
.”

“And how do you think it will make you look if they find out? It’s just not on, Binky,” I snapped, feeling close to tears. “It’s not how a Rannoch behaves. Think of your ancestor who rode fearlessly into the guns at the charge of the Light Brigade. He didn’t even consider running away, with cannons to the right of him, cannons to the left of him. I will not allow you to let down the family name in this way. I expect you back in London immediately. If you hurry you can catch the ten o’clock from Edinburgh.”

“Oh, look here—couldn’t you just say that—”

“No, I certainly couldn’t,” I shouted down the hollow crackling line with my own voice echoing back at me. “And what’s more, if you don’t come back right away, I’ll tell them you did it.”

I put the phone down with a certain amount of satisfaction. At least I was learning to assert myself. Good practice for saying no to the queen and Prince Siegfried.

Chapter 16

The sofa in Belinda Warburton-Stoke’s living room
Saturday, April 30, 1932

Now that Binky was presumably wending his way back to London, I felt a little better. Belinda’s maid arrived about seven and bustled about making so much noise that I had to get up in self-defense. Belinda herself did not appear until after ten, looking pale and wan in her silk kimono.

“No more Black Stallions ever,” she groaned, feeling her way to the table and reaching out for the cup of tea the maid placed in front of her. “I seem to remember hearing the telephone. Was that your brother?”

“Yes, and I’ve told him to come back to London immediately,” I said. “I was very firm.”

“Good for you. But in the meantime we should start our sleuthing.”

“Should we? Doing what?”

“Darling, if your brother didn’t drown de Mauxville, then somebody else did. We need to find out who.”

“Won’t the police be doing that?”

“Policemen are notoriously dense. That inspector has probably leaped to the conclusion that your brother is guilty and thus will look no further.”

“But that’s awful.”

“So it will be up to you, Georgie.”

“But what can I do?”

Belinda shrugged. “Start by asking people around the square. Someone might have noticed de Mauxville arriving, possibly with a stranger. Or a stranger trying to get into your house.”

“That’s true.”

“And we could ring up Claridge’s and ask them who left messages for de Mauxville or visited him.”

“They are not likely to tell me that,” I said.

“Pretend to be a relative from France. Distraught. Desperate to find him. Family crisis, you know. Use your feminine wiles.”

“I suppose so,” I said hesitantly.

“Do it now. Go on.” She pointed to the telephone. “With any luck the police haven’t grilled everybody yet.”

“All right.” I got up and went over to the instrument, picking it up gingerly.

“ ’Allo,” I said in pseudo-French when I was connected to the Claridge’s operator. “Zis is Mademoiselle de Mauxville. I believe zat my bruzzer stay wiz you,
n’est-ce pas
? De Mauxville?”

“Yes, that’s right. Monsieur de Mauxville has been staying with us.”

“Would you please put me through to him?” I asked, the French accent already slipping.

“I’m afraid that—that is, he was not in his room last night, Mademoiselle de Mauxville.”

“Ooh la la. Terrible. Out on zee town again, I fear. Could you tell me, please, has he had any messages?” (I made it rhyme with “massages.”) “Did somebody give ’im zee message from me yesterday? I am desperate to contact ’im and he doesn’t call me.”

“A message was delivered to his room yesterday, but I couldn’t say who it was from. I show no message from you, mademoiselle.”

“’Ow is zis possible?” I demanded. “I telephone from Paris in zee morning.”

“Maybe your message was passed along verbally,” the switchboard girl suggested.

“And has he had any visitors? I need to know if my cousin has encountered him on a matter of family business.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know that. You’d have to ask at reception and I don’t think they’d be at liberty to tell you. Now, if you’d give me your address and telephone number, mademoiselle, someone will probably want to contact you about your brother in the near future.”

“My address?” My brain raced. “I am unfortunately touring wiz friends at zee moment. I will telephone you again tomorrow and in the meantime, please tell my bruzzer zat I must speak wiz him.”

I put down the phone. “I think they must know,” I said. “She wanted my address in France. But a message was delivered to him yesterday, and he may have had a visitor.”

“Did she describe the visitor?”

“She wouldn’t say.”

“You may have to go there and question the staff. They’d probably tell you.”

Telephoning was one thing. Grilling the staff at Claridge’s was quite another. Besides, my picture was well enough known that I was likely to be recognized, which would only make things worse for Binky and me.

“I suppose I could go and question people around the square,” I said. “Will you come with me?”

“It does sound like fun,” she said, “but I have a client coming to my dress salon at two. Tell you what—I’ll do your sleuthing with you if you’ll come to my salon with me and model clothes for the client.”

“Me? Model clothes?” I started to laugh.

“Oh, be a brick, Georgie. Usually I have to model them myself and it would be so much easier, and so much better for my prestige, if I could just sit there chatting with the client while someone else modeled them. It’s what they do at all the big houses—and I really need this sale. I think this one might actually pay cash for once.”

“But, Belinda, I fear I’d be more of a hindrance than a help,” I said. “Remember the debutante disaster. Remember when I was Juliet in the school play and I fell off the balcony. I am not known for my grace.”

“It’s not as if you have to walk down a runway, darling. Just open the curtains and stand there. Anyone could do it, and you are tall and slim. And your red hair will go so nicely with the purple.”

“Oh, dear. All right,” I said.

It took Belinda a good two hours to breakfast, bathe, and get dressed, so that it was noon by the time we made our way back to Belgrave Square. This time there were two police cars parked outside Rannoch House, a constable standing on guard, and—horror of horrors—gentlemen of the press, complete with cameras. I grabbed Belinda’s arm.

“I can’t be seen here. My picture would be in all the papers.”

“You’re quite right,” Belinda said. “You go back to my place and I’ll have to do it for you.”

“But they might accost you,” I said.

“I’ll take that risk,” she said with an enigmatic smile. “Brave dress designer fights to clear chum’s name.” The grin broadened. “A little publicity might be just what my business needs.”

“Belinda, you will be careful, won’t you? Don’t say anything about our knowing de Mauxville, or that you’re asking questions to try and prove our innocence.”

“My dear, I shall be the soul of discretion, as always,” she said. “See you in a jiffy.”

Reluctantly I left her to her task—as I now remembered that she hadn’t always been the soul of discretion at school—and went back to wait nervously at her mews cottage. Time ticked by and finally she arrived back at one thirty, looking smug. “I was only accosted by one reporter. I pretended I had just heard the news and come to hold your hand through the crisis. I was absolutely devastated to find you weren’t there. I was awfully good.”

“But did you find out anything?”

“One of the gardeners in the square saw your brother arrive on foot and then depart in a taxi. He couldn’t tell what time but around the lunch hour, as he was sitting down with his cheese and pickle sandwiches at the time. A chauffeur at the corner house saw a dark-haired man in an overcoat going up the steps of Rannoch House.”

“That would be de Mauxville. So he was alone?”

“One gathers so.”

“So we now know that my brother and de Mauxville did not arrive together, also that de Mauxville didn’t arrive at the same time as anyone else. That must mean that someone was there to let him into the house. Anything else?”

“The only other people the chauffeur remembered seeing were the window cleaners, working their way around the square.”

“Window cleaners!” I said excitedly. “Absolutely perfect. A window cleaner could slip into the house through an open window, slip out again, and it wouldn’t matter if he looked wet and bedraggled.”

Belinda nodded. “You don’t happen to know what firm of window cleaners is employed on the square, do you?”

“I don’t. One doesn’t notice window cleaners, unless they peer in one’s bedroom when one is still in bed.”

“I’ll slip back to the square on our way to my salon. I’m sure to encounter a servant who will know. Then we can ring them up and find out who was working this morning.”

“Good idea.” I was feeling positively hopeful.

But by the time we reached the square, more press had arrived and there was not a servant to be seen. Reluctantly we had to continue to Belinda’s salon. She glanced at her watch as we came to Hyde Park Corner.

“Damn, we’re going to be late if we don’t hurry.”

“Should we hail a cab?” I asked.

“No need. It’s just off Curzon Street.”

“Mayfair? You pay to have your workshop in Mayfair?”

“Well, it’s not exactly a workshop,” Belinda threw back at me as she dodged between a bus, a taxi, and an elderly Rolls. “I have a little woman in Whitechapel who does the actual sewing for me, but Mayfair is where I meet my clients.”

“Isn’t the rent frightfully expensive?”

“Darling, the right sort of people wouldn’t come if it was in Fulham or Putney,” she said breezily. “Besides, my uncle owns practically the whole block. It’s a dinky little place but just big enough for little
moi
. You’ll love it.”

Belinda had not been exaggerating. The place consisted of one room, carpeted, with a sofa and low glass table. A big gilt mirror had pride of place. Pictures of Belinda’s creations and famous people wearing them hung on the walls. A couple of lovely bolts of silk were flung carelessly in a corner and the far end was blocked off by velvet curtains.

“You pop behind the curtains, darling, and change into the purple evening dress. It’s an American lady and you know how impressed they are by royalty and it has that lovely coronationy feel. What’s more, I’m sure I can make her come up with the cash in advance. I just hope she’s not too large—that dress would make a large person look like a beached whale.”

I pulled back the curtains and found a long purple dress hanging there.

“I’ve seen this dress before, surely,” I said. “Didn’t Marisa wear it at Primrose’s wedding?”

“Similar, but not the same,” Belinda said frostily. “I saw the idea and copied it. I expect Marisa paid a fortune for hers in Paris. I’m not above stealing other designers’ ideas.”

“Belinda!”

“Nobody need know,” she said. “The wedding is over. The dresses will never be worn again and I’m sure no American ladies were present.”

“Maybe they gate-crashed like us,” I suggested.

“If they did, they can’t afford my creations,” Belinda said smugly. “Hurry up, she’ll be here in a second.”

I retreated behind the curtains and started to get undressed. It was dark and cramped with hardly enough room to move my arms. I heard a tap on the door when I was standing in my underclothes, wondering whether to put the dress on over my head or to step into it. I hastily stepped into it as I heard strident American tones echoing through the small room.

“People have been mentioning your name and I thought I’d just pop by, as I need something stunning for some upcoming functions. It has to be the very height of fashion, mind you. Important people will be present.”

“I think I have something you’re going to love,” Belinda said at her most condescendingly British. “I have to tell you that royalty have worn my creations.”

“Oh, my dear, I won’t hold that against you, but please never use that as a selling point again. I immediately picture the dowdy duchess, looking like a Christmas pudding with a tiara on top, or that awful straight-backed queen of yours, looking as if her corset were made of reinforced steel and two sizes too tight.”

It was all I could do to stay behind the curtain. The dowdy duchess she was referring to had to be Elizabeth of York, who was delightful, amusing, a fellow Scot whom I absolutely adored, and the queen was—well, she was the queen. Enough said.

“I’ll tell you what I want, honey,” the American woman went on. “I want an outfit suitable to be worn for cocktails at a smart nightclub—maybe for dancing afterward. Something avant-garde that will make all heads turn in my direction.”

“I have the very thing,” Belinda said. “One moment while I get my girl to model it for you.”

She darted behind the curtain. “Quick. Out of the purple and into that black and white.” She almost flung it at me, and disappeared again. I wriggled out of the purple, then tried to put on the black and white creation. In that confined darkness it was hard to see which way to attack it. Tentatively I stepped into it and started to wriggle it upward.